Luo Xie had not slept for forty hours.
The numbers on his screen swam before his eyes, spreadsheets collapsing into meaningless grids of gray. Coffee had long since lost its effect; the bitterness lingered only as acid clawing at his stomach. His fingers trembled as they struck the keyboard, each keystroke slower than the last.
At thirty-seven, he understood one truth with brutal clarity—
This was his life.
Office. Apartment. Office again.
An endless loop with no exit.
The promotion he'd chased for years hovered just out of reach, a mirage dangled before obedient beasts. His eighty-square-meter rental waited for him in the dark—clean, quiet, empty. A coffin he paid monthly to sleep in.
His phone vibrated.
Another family call.
He didn't answer. He already knew the script.
When will you marry?
Don't you want children?
What kind of man reaches your age and has nothing to show for it?
Luo Xie laughed softly, the sound dry and cracked.
Nothing to show for it?
He dragged his gaze back to the screen.
"One more report," he whispered hoarsely. "Just one."
If he stopped now, everything would collapse.
His spine screamed as he straightened. His vision blurred.
Then something inside his head snapped.
Pain detonated behind his eyes, sharp and absolute. The world tilted. The keyboard slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor.
Luo Xie tried to inhale—
—and failed.
His chest seized. Darkness surged in from the edges of his vision.
So this is it, he thought distantly.
No promotion. No gratitude. No one waiting.
Just exhaustion.
Then—
The darkness shattered.
A foreign torrent crashed into his mind: roaring seas, floating islands, clans drenched in blood. Cultivation manuals. Qi deviation. A child kneeling in shame before an elder's encouraging gaze.
Grass spiritual root.
Trash.
Memories that were not his tore through his consciousness, grinding together like broken glass. Ten years. Twenty. An entire lifetime compressed into a single, unbearable instant.
Pain peaked—
—and vanished.
Luo Xie gasped.
Cold air filled his lungs, rich with salt and unfamiliar herbs. His body felt wrong—lighter, smaller.
He opened his eyes.
Wooden beams. A straw futon. Blood-stained robes far too small to be his.
His heart slammed violently.
This wasn't an office.
This wasn't Earth.
He raised his hands.
They were tiny.
Small, soft hands—unmarked by calluses, untouched by years of labor or resentment. Luo Xie turned them slowly beneath the lantern light, watching the faint reflection ripple across his skin.
Eight years old.
A child's body.
Yet his mind was steady, frighteningly clear.
Cold as it sounded, he hadn't chosen this. He hadn't killed the boy whose life he now occupied. Fate—or something far more indifferent—had simply exchanged them at the instant of death.
A life for a life.
A second chance.
In a world where immortals rode flying swords, shattered mountains, and defied the will of heaven itself.
The thought stirred something deep within him.
Curiosity.
He closed his eyes and turned inward.
Deep within his lower abdomen, where cultivators gathered and refined qi, something pulsed—faint, but undeniably alive.
His spiritual root.
Not the exaggerated caricature he'd imagined from novels. No absurd ginseng shape, no glowing tree of legends.
Instead—
A single emerald sprout.
Delicate. Slender. Rooted firmly within his dantian, its surface faintly translucent, veins pulsing with slow, patient vitality. It swayed gently, as if responding to an unseen current.
Grass.
Then—
A whisper brushed against his consciousness.
Not sound. Not words.
Instinct.
Grow.
His breath caught.
The whisper came again, clearer this time. Calm. Certain.
Devour.
Adapt.
Thrive.
Luo Xie's eyes snapped open.
His heart thundered, but not with fear.
With exhilaration.
"So that's how it is…" he murmured, lips curling upward.
Who decided Grass roots were weak?
There was no system panel hovering before him. No divine voice proclaiming his destiny. No sudden flood of cultivation realms or techniques burned into his mind.
Only this.
A quiet, persistent urge.
An instinct etched into his very foundation.
In his previous life, transmigrators relied on cheats—external crutches handed down by heaven.
This was different.
This was evolution.
A low, breathless laugh escaped him—light, childish, and utterly unrestrained.
For the first time in years, genuine joy welled up inside his chest.
No spreadsheets.
No blind dates.
No forced smiles or hollow obedience.
Only power.
Longevity.
Freedom.
The wooden hut around him was humble. Bamboo walls bore faded clan sigils—a jade leviathan coiling through restless waves, its body scarred yet unbroken. The air carried the lingering scent of dried blood mixed with crushed spirit grass.
He shed the stained robes, wincing slightly at the awkwardness of his short limbs.
A child's body.
An adult's resolve.
Acceptable, he decided.
He slipped into the adjacent spirit pool. Warm water embraced him, faintly glowing with diluted qi. As he exhaled, the tension seeped from his bones. Steam curled upward, blurring the lantern light.
He studied his reflection.
Round cheeks. Bright eyes. Messy black hair clinging to his forehead.
"Handsome," he declared solemnly.
The water rippled in silent agreement.
As his body relaxed, his thoughts sharpened.
Miss his old life?
He scoffed inwardly.
Fifteen years as a beast of burden—worked hollow by expectations that never ended.
Who would ever go back?
Here, the Luo Clan was small, but close-knit. Uncle Luo Feng drilled spear forms at dawn. Aunt Mei brewed medicinal soups with calloused care. Cousins exchanged cultivation tips without envy or mockery.
No sneers.
Only support.
Grass grows resilient.
The words surfaced unbidden.
He dressed in clean gray robes embroidered with the clan's leviathan emblem and stepped outside.
The sea breeze struck his face, crisp and briny. Gulls cried overhead as waves crashed against the island's black-sand shores. The compound bustled quietly—training grounds alive with flickers of flame and wind, everyone contributing what they could.
"Little Xie! Awake at last?"
Uncle Luo Feng strode over, spear qi humming faintly around him. Concern softened his rugged features.
"Reckless boy," he said with a sigh. "Grass spiritual root or not, only steady wins the sea."
Luo Xie bowed deeply.
"Uncle, I was wrong."
Uncle Feng laughed, ruffling his hair. "Rest well. Spirit Awakening Ceremony is in three days." He pressed a jade slip into his palm.
"We are a family"
As Feng departed, Luo Xie wandered toward the compound's edge.
A thicket bordered the spirit herb fields.
Common weeds grew wild there, ignored and untended.
He knelt beside a Blueleaf weed and placed his hand upon it.
The whisper returned.
Devour.
The plant withered soundlessly. Its essence flowed into his dantian like a warm stream. The emerald sprout trembled—then unfurled a tiny blue leaf.
Qi surged.
Pure. Refined.
No resistance.
No bottleneck.
Luo Xie's smile sharpened.
As the last trace of essence settled into his dantian, his shapened smile froze.
It wasn't just the grass spiritual root only.
The world felt… different.
At first, he thought it was imagination—a lingering echo of cultivation. But as he focused, the sensation sharpened.
From the nearby herb fields.
From the thicket.
From beneath the soil itself.
Something brushed against his awareness.
Not words.
Intent.
Dry.
Hungry.
Too much sun.
Roots cramped.
Luo Xie's pupils contracted.
He turned his head slowly.
The spirit herb fields lay quiet, leaves rustling gently in the sea breeze. To the eye, nothing was amiss.
Yet to him—
Each plant radiated a faint emotional hum, like murmurs beneath water. The Blueleaf weeds were timid and scattered, their thoughts weak and instinctual. Deeper in the fields, a cluster of Spirit Dew Grass whispered restlessly, yearning for moisture-rich qi.
He swallowed.
"I can hear them…" he murmured.
The grass spiritual root within his dantian pulsed once, as if in affirmation.
Listen.
Learn.
Choose.
Understanding dawned.
This wasn't domination.
This wasn't command.
It was communion.
Grass recognized grass.
Plants spoke not in language, but in need, growth, and survival. Their whispers were simple, honest—free of deception or ambition.
And his spiritual root understood them instinctively.
Luo Xie crouched beside a Spirit Dew Grass plant, pressing his fingers lightly into the soil.
Too shallow, it murmured faintly. Roots ache.
He adjusted the earth, loosening it gently, guiding a trickle of qi into the soil.
The plant's whisper softened.
Warm… good…
A thread of pure qi flowed back toward him—not devoured, but willingly shared.
Luo Xie's breath slowed.
"So it's not just consumption," he realized. "It's exchange."
Devouring was only one path.
Nurturing was another.
His grass spiritual root stirred, the tiny blue leaf shimmering faintly.
Adapt, it urged.
Thrive together.
A chill ran down his spine.
In a world where cultivators slaughtered spirit beasts and stripped mountains bare for resources, this ability was terrifying in its own way.
If word spread—
He straightened immediately, expression smoothing into childlike calm.
No one could know.
Not yet.
Grass survived by being overlooked.
That night, as he cultivated beneath the lantern light, the whispers surrounded him—soft, countless, patient. Roots drinking deep. Leaves stretching toward unseen moons. Seeds waiting decades for a single chance to sprout.
Luo Xie listened.
And for the first time, he understood.
Grass did not compete with fire.
It outlived it.